Red Death
by HellFire
Summary: Trowa is haunted by visions of red...Trowa torment, gallons of blood
1. Part 1

~ All standard disclaimers apply.

~ Warning: Gallons of blood, Trowa torment (not torture, torment)

~ Note: Remember, I've warned you. GALLONS OF BLOOD, PEOPLE. I'm talking seriously here. All reviews appreciated, but those filled with stupidity will be ignored.

//thoughts//

~ Red Death ~

HellFire

A drop lands on Trowa's cheek, waking him.

// Raining. It figures. //

Another drop, spattering against his bare chest.

The boy sighs and moves to a sitting position, legs crossed under him. He wipes the moisture off, finding the lamp with his other hand. He flicks it on, waits. Flicks it off, then on again. Nothing.

Heaving a sigh, Trowa gives up on the lamp. It probably hasn't worked for years anyway. Tossing aside the ratty blanket, he swings his feet to the floor, planning to feel his way to the window.

//What the…? //

He jerks his foot. The sound of splashing water reaches his ears. It's warm. Trowa stands, puzzled by the ankle-deep liquid around his feet. Carefully he makes his way to the window, the warm liquid rippling around his feet disconcertingly A faint gleam of moonlight shines around the curtain, illuminating his destination.. 

//It isn't possible that the room could have flooded with warm rainwater without my noticing. //

Strangely, he feels a sense of relief as he reaches his destination. It is not logical, but neither is the very presence of the warm water coating the floor. Trowa grips the rough fabric of the curtains and pulls. Moonlight floods in, bathing his form in silvery light. All is still outside. The only sounds to be heard are the soft noises of water gently licking at the boy's ankles and Trowa's own breathing, equally soft. He looks down at the water lapping at his feet.

Red.

That water is red. Even in the washed-out light it's obvious. He shouldn't be able to tell the color of the warm fluid with such ease, shouldn't be able to smell the pungent scent that suddenly makes itself known, should be able to… But does. That smell: he knows it. Oh yes, he knows it very well.

The metallic tang of blood.

There is no mistaking that smell. It coats his tongue, choking him. He knows nothing will dispel the smell of it. It coats him, just as it clung to the mercenaries who trained him, permeates the air after a battle, rising above the smell of gunpowder and death. He can never wash it off. He can scrub until his flesh is red and raw, but the smell will never vanish. It never will.

Trowa reaches out to steady himself on the wall, dizzy with memories. His hand meets with warm slickness, sliding between his fingers, coating his palm. He yanks his hand away as if stung by a hornet, stares at it in the silvered light. His breath catches in his throat. Drops of congealing blood fall from his fingers, plopping into the thinner blood at his feet. Drops stain his legs, the liquid slowly drying.

A drop falls on his bowed head. Out of habit Trowa looks up, a hand twitching as if to smooth back hair. The boy's eyes open wide, horror echoing in their emerald depths.

Blood drips from the ceiling, the once flat surface now spotted with lumps at irregular intervals. It slides down the walls, falls with soft splashing noises to the floor, drops onto the bed and small table. The useless lamp is now stained red, the table a dark mahogany below it. The bed appears almost black, sheets and pillows heavy with blood.

Red.

It covers every available surface, even Trowa himself as he stands frozen by unexplainable terror. The color is brighter than anything has a right to be in the moonlight. And yet there it is, vivid as in the light of day. Trowa's world awash in shades of blood, intense in the red-tinted light of the moon.

The falling drops tap out a musical tune, chorus repeating in a never-ending refrain.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

Trowa is frozen, staring wildly at the red death around him.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

He shakes his head violently, a futile gesture of denial. 

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

The boy clamps hands over ears, forgetting the blood coating them.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

He falls to the floor, eyes wild.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

"NO!"

We'll… get… you… 

~ Tsuzuku? ~

A/N: Whaddya think? Should I do more? Stop now?


	2. Part 2

~ All standard disclaimers apply

~ Warning: See Red Death pt 1

~ Red Death: Part 2 ~

"Aah!"

Trowa shot up in bed, breathing hard and sweating heavily. Frantically he tossed off the blanket and stood up on the bed. He nearly hit his head on the ceiling; his sleep-tousled hair almost brushed the wood. His gaze darted all around the small room, never staying on one object for very long before hopping to the next. His breath caught in his throat then was ripped from him as his heart jumped and missed a few beats.

He expected to see blood, blood everywhere, coating every surface, dripping form everything in sight. But as his startled gaze raced around the room he found his heart slowing, his breaths coming easier. No blood. No red. Everything its proper color and shape. The sheets and pillow were their original dirty white. The wood of the floor, ceiling and walls were once again a light brown streaked with water stains. His duffel bag in the corner was no longer a dark reddish-brown. The light streaming in through the open window was the warm, buttery light of the sun, not the ruddy, dim glow of the bloodstained moon.

It had all been a dream. Heaving a sigh of relief, Trowa plopped down on the blood-free bed. He glanced toward the far wall, taking a small measure of comfort from the sunlight pouring through the open window. Wait, _open_ window? The drapes had been shut tightly last night, only a faint gleam of moonlight shining around the curtains. And he hadn't opened them, unless… Unless the dream hadn't been a dream at all.

No! It was impossible. The bedding was clean, or as clean as it had been when he'd arrived. The walls and ceiling were free of blood, the floor not covered by an ankle-deep pool of red. Everything was as it should be, everything…Everything but the open curtains. Trowa's breathing had sped up, his heart pounding double time.

He stood up and crossed the room in three long steps. Reaching out, he yanked the drapes closed. The golden sunlight was shut out, the room returned to its previous state. Slowly his breathing and heart rate reduced.

He was not acting rationally, Trowa knew that full well. But the curtains had been closed when he went to bed. It wasn't very likely that anyone else would have opened the curtains. Trowa was alone in this weather-beaten cabin, and chances were no thief would bother with this place. No thief in his right mind would have attempted to rob this old cabin.

Nevertheless, Trowa decided to check his measly belongings. The material goods he carried with him were few but of value to him, and perhaps others, if they could understand the significance of them. Releasing his grip on the curtains, Trowa strode into the corner and bent down to examine his duffel.

Everything seemed to be in order. The disks containing the information he had just stolen were untouched and unharmed. His meager food supply hadn't been nibbled on, not even by the rats and other pests he suspected lived in this shack. Indeed, nothing of his had been touched.

Trowa could not find the source of his paranoia. Admittedly, when one was a gundam pilot in the middle of a war, a measure of paranoia was healthy, even necessary for survival. But this was just a damn open window. No bombs or tracers had been planted; no information had been stolen. So why was he so worked up over this? Trowa could see no connection between this open window and OZ, Romafellar, the Alliance, Relena Peacecraft or the scientists. He saw no way a simple open window could be connected to himself or any of the other pilots. So he should just ignore it, go on with his life, but be aware. Later, in a safer place, he would search his stuff again for a transmitter, a microchip, anything that shouldn't be there or simply wasn't there.

That settled, the boy relaxed a bit. He had a plan of action, however pathetic it was. Trowa reached for his shirt, discarded before he had gone to bed. The change in temperature here on Earth was so much more dramatic than on the colonies. Trowa preferred the colony summers to the Earth summers. Give him climate control and mechanical breezes any day.

Looking down, Trowa noticed a dark splotch on his still bare chest. It looked like…like dried blood. A drop of blood had fallen on his chest in the dream. No, if this was blood it had soaked though his shirt the day before, not dropped onto his skin during the night. Hurriedly Trowa pulled on his shirt, covering up the stain. He really should get another style of shirt; long-sleeved turtlenecks were not going to cut it now that it was summer.

Yes, that was a safe train of thought. Focus on the heat and the need for a new shirt. Don't think about blood where there should be none, open windows when the curtains should have been closed. He could deal with all of that later. Right now all he wanted to do was get out of this cabin, away from the cursed window, and scrub the dark stain from his chest.

Hastily he zippered his duffel. Snatching it up from the floor, Trowa practically ran from the cabin.

~~~

It was late when his reached his destination. Dark had fallen many long hours ago, and the moon burned bright amidst a scattering of stars. By now Trowa felt silly for his unreasonable panic attack. He had stopped at the first stream he had come to and stripped right then and there, uncaring about potential danger. He had plunged into the water and scrubbed at his chest with handfuls of rough sand and pebbles dredged up from the streambed. In the end he had scoured his entire body, ferociously rubbing and scraping. By the time the fit had passed his skin was pink and abraded and he was shivering uncontrollably from the cold of the water. The cheek that the dream-blood had dripped on had been scrubbed until it had almost bled.

But the bath had helped him. After he climbed out of the stream, Trowa was once again clear-headed and calm. He had set out at once, but the fit had cost him precious time. He had had to push himself almost past the limit to reach this safe house before morning. And he still had work to do.

Methodically, Trowa searched his bag and clothes once more, then again just to be sure. When he was satisfied that no bug had been placed on him or in his bag, he replaced his belongings and collapsed on the bed. He didn't remove his shirt.

As tired as he was, sleep didn't come easily. The nightmare, for that's all it was, all it could have been, haunted his thoughts. Trowa was afraid that he would fall asleep, have another nightmare, and be unable to wake up from it. Unreasonable, yes, but many fears are unreasonable. And so he lay in the dark, simultaneously dreading sleep and welcoming it.

At least this room didn't have a window.

~~~

Trowa is awakened by the sound of rain against the sheet metal of the roof. The drops pound relentlessly, drumming, drumming, drumming. Usually the sound of rain is soothing; he has often been lulled to sleep by the sound of falling rain. However, this time is different. The pounding of the drops push him further away from the black emptiness of sleep. The boy rolls over, firmly pressing one ear into the pillow. It doesn't help. With each passing second he becomes more and more aware of the world around him: the bed, the sheet rock walls, the rain against the metal roof. And beyond that sound, around and under it, the soft melody of rain on leaves, dripping onto the softened dirt.

The boy reclines for a while, staring into the dark of the room, listening to the pouring rain. He sighs. He needs to sleep, but sleep seems determined to elude him. Without quite knowing why, Trowa rises from his bed. He has an idea of stepping out into the rain, the cool, healing rain.

Rain is one of the few good things in Trowa's life. With the water comes a sense of peace, precarious and illusionary as it is. And when the rain leaves it takes with it all the evils, all the lies, and all the pain accumulated between showers. The world seems born anew after a good storm, bright and innocent and full of pleasant choices. Trowa knows though, that the rain merely covers the faults of the world with a veil of glistening brightness that slowly and inexorably tears apart, only to be replaced by the next gossamer curtain. Fake as it is, the boy sometimes craves, _needs_ to see those fragile illusions laid down over the Earth, colonies, even himself.

He moves though the safe house, staying close to the walls to avoid walking into anything in the dark. The inky night is diluted here and there by a glow of moonlight around the edges of the curtains. Nervously Trowa glances at the light, checking for a gleam of red, a shine of blood. Nothing. The moonlight is the silvery-blue of an unstained moon, the moon of the everyday world. He heaves a sigh of relief.

He is not aware that he moves his feet to the tempo set by the rain on the metal roof. Even if he had been aware, he wouldn't be able to help himself. The rain is compelling, urging him onward to the door. If he can just watch the rain fall, perhaps walk amid the silvery drops for a while, he'll be able to sleep. The sins he has committed will be washed away, soaked into the earth, gone by morning. He will be healed, comforted by the cold blessing of rain.

Trowa steps out into the rain-swept realm beyond the door, unable to recall having opened the portal in the first place. He hesitates a bit, chilled almost to the bone despite his long-sleeved turtleneck. He wonders if he should perhaps grab his little-used jacket, but the rain beckons to him. He steps out, further away from the protection of the safe house and into the fury of the storm.

Raindrops driven by the wind sting his exposed face. Trowa closes his eyes to them, tilting his head back and enjoying the sensation. Hair streams over his face, plastering itself to his skin. He is soaked, wet clothes offering no protection from the biting wind and lashing rain. As he walks, the mud squishes beneath his feet, between his toes. It's cold, as cold as the rain itself, and sends shocks up and down his legs, along his spine, though his body. Trowa takes a deep breath of the cool, clean air, feels it pass though his windpipe, enter his lungs. He stands there for a while, just letting himself feel, letting his mind drift, carried away by the torrent of sensation.

The boy shoves the hair from his face, looks around at the rain-covered landscape. Everything is cast in shades of cool blue, deep black and piercing silver. Everything shines in the moonlight, the world bright with reflected rays. Shadows are clean cut, looking like deep slices carved from a cake with pale blue icing and bright silver trimming. The rain is a glittering curtain made of drops of white gold descending from the heavens. Trowa once more tilts his head back, this time parting his lips to taste of the tiny pearls. They fall readily into his mouth, landing on his waiting tongue.

But no, something is wrong. Rain should never have that tang, that metallic taste. Even in the colonies where the drops always taste old, they never leave a rusty feeling in the mouth. Trowa open his eyes and spits into his hand. The metallic tang doesn't leave his mouth; it still coats his tongue and the back of his throat, slightly tacky.

Red.

Trowa stared in shock at his hand. A large splotch of red mars the skin of his palm, joined by smaller splashes dotting his hand, dripping onto his arm. He looks around at the moonlit scenery but no! Moonlight, once silver, now cast in maroon, illuminates the world. It reflects off the falling rain that isn't rain, not rain at all, no, it's blood, blood falling from the sky, blood staining everything in sight, blood masquerading as rain, but it's not rain, no, not rain, it's blood, blood, BLOOD!

Wild eyed Trowa stares at the changed landscape around him. Leaves of frozen hemoglobin melt, the runoff splashing into puddles, pools, oceans of blood. The ground, once bruised blue and black in the untainted moonlight, is now covered in blood-leaf condensation, an awful shade of carmine red. The runoff is blown by the metallic wind, built up into horrific towers and shapes that swallow up entire trees of frozen blood. Shadows once solid dance in the gory light, morphing, reaching, seeking out any that they can pull down into their dark raspberry depths.

The boy stares, but he stares not with eyes of emerald green. No, in this light Trowa's eyes are ruby dark, as red as the blood surrounding him, touching him, _bathing_ him. He doesn't need a mirror to confirm this thought; in this crimson world where everything is cast in shades of scarlet no green can exist.

He squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his hands against them, grinding his palms into his eyelids until he sees stars of white and red and black. They explode to the tuneless melody of the blood-rain, chanting the familiar chorus: We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

Trowa frantically shakes his head, attempting to dispel the voices.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

He drops to his knees, breathing hard.

We'll get you, we'll get you, we'll get you, 

"No…"

We'll get you…

~~~

Once again Trowa woke from a bloody nightmare, safe in bed, daylight sneaking in through cracks in the walls. He glanced quickly around the room, swiftly ascertaining that all was where it should be. Heaving a sigh, Trowa buried his face in his hands.

"How many more dreams will I have?"

~ Tsuzuku ~


End file.
